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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23717482">Ghostly Shades of Love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaosController/pseuds/ChaosController'>ChaosController</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sanders Sides (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Character Turned Into a Ghost, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags Contain Spoilers, no beta we die like men</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:54:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,039</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23717482</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaosController/pseuds/ChaosController</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"As cliché as it is his life only truly began when it ended."</p>
<p>(There is not one quote in this I can use that won't sound like straight up angst. I promise it's probably not as bad as you think it is, or it might be. Look everyone has different tastes and this isn't too bad to me but might be to you, so let's just be cautious here. Okay? Good.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ghostly Shades of Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Well. It's not a record, but look at that personal record of not posting for five months. Sorry, but I don't really have an excuse. Story of my life there. </p>
<p>So let's get warnings out of the way if you didn't read the tags: first off there's a car crash, there is blood mentioned, vomiting, death is a big part of this, one of the characters accidentally cuts their palm so there's blood in that as well. </p>
<p>It isn't too long, and I am going to do a second part to this to add in more characters and such, but I thought I'd post something after so long. </p>
<p>(Based on "A Ghost Story" (2017))</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘Fractured ribs, concussion, internal bleeding. You said he was in a car crash, right? You’re absolutely sure that’s what did this to him.’</p>
<p>‘Saw it happen myself. Paramedics asked me to come in for information sake.’</p>
<p>‘Poor guy. What is he; early twenties?’</p>
<p>‘I think his license is in the car still. Got pretty totalled. All smashed up on the side and flipped all the way down. Other car was worse though.’</p>
<p>‘Right, thank you for that. I’ll have another nurse get your statement in full, could you wait for a few minutes in the waiting room?’</p>
<p>‘Can do. Hope he survives this.’</p>
<p>‘So do I.’</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>_____________</p>
</div>It’s a strange phenomenon. Seeing your body crumpled up like a rag doll or a piece of paper. Folded in on itself as you watch helplessly as each new responder tries to pull you out of the position you’ve found yourself in while they try to be as delicate and precious with what remains of you as possible.<p>Roman had never been one for the whole “not damaging the goods” thing. Wouldn’t it just be better to get the obviously dead body out of the vehicle and off the road as soon as possible? After all, people still had to get places and it’s not as if there was much in the way of identifiable with such a grotesque mishmash of human anatomy. </p>
<p>But right now, as he thought about how strange it was to be dead and know that his pretzel esque body was being pulled precariously from its place in his now crushed car, all he could think about was how this was going to affect his fiancé. Though right now it would be more like once fiancé. It’s not as though Logan could marry him as a ghost. </p>
<p>He’d be crushed. And a small part of Roman hoped that Logan would indeed be completely decimated by his sudden death, it was attention after all, and that was something he craved from all around him. But a stronger part argued that he shouldn’t wish that upon his would-be spouse. Logan would be hurt no matter how bad the collision had been and, as selfish as it was, he knew Logan would grieve and be in pain despite how much he wished it upon him. </p>
<p>They hadn’t had an unhappy relationship, to that point. They fought, argued, though he’d seen far worse in the way of relationships and was more than used to portraying that on the stage. No, they’d had a perfectly reasonable and comfortable relationship, but right now he wished he could take it back. If they hadn’t been so connected, well, the pain might have been far less than it was. Knowing, right now, he may never be able to talk or share the small moments with him ever again was like a rock sinking into a hollow abyss in his stomach. </p>
<p>He felt a twinge of pain, dulled but there and looked to his body. A face only a mother could love, he supposed as the scraped and bloodied remains of what used to be his own face were finally revealed from beneath a layer of metal and glass. He winced gently as they began untangling what they could, forgetting it all in a moment as he imagined what would come next. </p>
<p>The funeral. His parents, brother, would-be fiancé. Their chocked-up expressions, shocked and tearful faces as his muddled body, mutilated beyond human recognition, was placed six feet under in a wooden casket. </p>
<p>God, he hoped they put him in a casket. Cremation would be a bitch. All that fiery pain coating his skin as what remained was burned up to ashes. Not something he wanted to live with. Or not live with. He was dead after all, but still if he felt the pain of his body being moved the pain of cremation would be an unholy and blinding thing that would be etched into his being forever more. Maybe they’d let Logan decide how he’d be put into the ground. He hoped they did. Logan knew best. He’d always known best. </p>
<p>Known Roman best, known the weather patterns best, known the roads best, and known people best. He warned Roman every day about something new, and every day there was a chance he’d be proven right. His accuracy was only matched by his smart tongue. And he’d never know that ever again, because there’d be no one around to say it to him. That chance had flown away, because how was Roman supposed to communicate to Logan, let alone make him believe he wasn’t crazy. </p>
<p>Together they’d been a duo of cynic and believer. Roman was big on doing everything at least once, that included believing in ghosts and ghouls and everything in and around those subjects. Logan had always been his cynical partner in crime, ever the voice of reason and common sense to his outlandish claims and ideas. What a couple they had been. What a couple they would never be again. </p>
<p>His heart plummeted for a second there, almost ready to cry at the idea. He didn’t know if it was possible for ghosts to cry, but he was sure he’d give it a shot. He’d cry, scream, wail, carry on like no one’s business until he could barely sob. Maybe then he’d be able to get someone to hear him, to listen. </p>
<p>Maybe then he could get them to talk to Logan. Explain his woes and tale, and possibly get him to realise that they were both now alone. If he couldn’t talk to Logan, couldn’t get him to listen, then it was as if he were never there to begin with. And without Roman, Logan was alone among the living. An orphan raised in a circle of never-ending foster homes until at last he could leave their care and take his own life into his hands. Make something of it. But now, he’d be as alone as he was the day they met. </p>
<p>That café, the small stack of books on all subjects that hid beautiful bespectacled eyes, the tower ready to be cut down by a small time performer who’d run into the café in costume, trying to make it big on a small stage as a second rate understudy and coffee boy. They’d only met through their eyes, but that was enough of a spark for Roman to take on coffee duty every day for the next six months, slowly working up the courage to talk to the fascinating creature that sat in wait like a hoarding dragon, ready to cut down the knight that came to take its treasure. </p>
<p>And what a treasure it was. Four more weeks of solid eye contact, two of almost going up to sit in the booth with him, and finally one week of not seeing him at all. Roman lost hope for a moment there but was pleasantly shocked and surprised when the first to make a move was Logan, tapping him on the shoulder to ask for his name. Two months later they tried dating and in one fell swoop the treasure behind those castle walls of paper and binding was gifted to Roman free of the dragon’s wrath. Patience, trust, love. All wrapped up in a glorious package as they entered their fourth month together. </p>
<p>He was started out of his luminous vision by a series of words, a sentence, that drugged his blood with dread. ‘We’ll have to get someone to identify the body.’</p>
<p>His heart rate dropped (if at all it could with his being dead) and he looked around in a panic to find where the voice had come from and who would bring such a torturous ordeal upon his loved ones. He found the voice in precisely a minute after the speaker uttered their next line, ‘we could do dental records, but if,’ the police officer  dug around in the bag Roman had kept on the passenger seat, his wallet was retrieved quickly and license looked over, ‘Mister Roman Ducasse isn’t from this area, we might be waiting a few weeks to get those records from whoever else in wherever else.’</p>
<p>His panic skyrocketed in a heartbeat. Logan was definitely the closest, so they’d go to him first, and what a cruel sight would await him when he saw what had become of his fiancé. All that slowly decomposing flesh, torn to shreds with no hope of revival. What would become of his precious heart when it saw that there was no hope for Roman to return?</p>
<p>Come to think of it, no one had let him know yet. He would be worried sick wondering where Roman was, probably pacing or worrying his lip until it bled. Maybe he’d be trying to call up the local police station after trying the theatre only to hear that he hadn’t been seen since the night before. He knew he was Roman’s only love, that had been very well established, so he couldn’t think of Roman as being a perfidious (oh, how proud he’d be to hear Roman using such a word) lover. </p>
<p>Neither had ever discussed infidelity, but such things were seemingly off the table for both and the more he thought of it, the more he began to spiral down in thought. There was no way Logan would think him adulterous, and yet what if his disappearance was seen as such and not the painful death that had occurred. </p>
<p>What if Logan suspected him of being disloyal, a preposterous thought, in their relationship and engaging with another? What would become of his heart when his rage turned to guilt over realising and finding out that Roman was not an adulterer, but indeed dead? Would he be able to bear it all; the guilt and pain and remorse, or would he not be able to function with such a heavy weight upon him?</p>
<p>Roman refused to imagine he couldn’t bear that weight. Of the two he always imagined Logan as the stronger when it came to personal issues and emotional issues, himself more physically strong though that had yet to be proven in any case. Mentally, Logan was sure to be stronger than Roman would have been. Surely, he would win out against it all. </p>
<p>And yet it gave Roman pause to remember those times where, in the wee hours of morning, where he’d seen his fiancé at his most vulnerable. No walls, no cages, no bottles. Just a river, free flowing and uninhibited. He’d never been drunk when such things happened, and he could only imagine what a drunk Logan would be, but in those hours, he’d held his betrothed and known how to care for him in each and every way needed. </p>
<p>When tears came upon them; when anger drove him to softcore violence towards their pillows; when the pain was so great, he could barely breathe; Roman had seen it all and been there beside him for every single moment. No one was as strong as the mask and front they put up, and they’d both dropped their masks on multiple occasions, some more than others. </p>
<p>In front of the police, Logan would remain as stoic and stone faced as he could; behind closed doors, though, he would weep and there was nothing Roman could do to help him this time. No loving hugs, no gentle hand holding, no combing of fingers through hair. He was a ghost, a spirit, a spectre; there was nothing he could do but watch and hope that the grief would not become his fiancé. </p>
<p>‘Get him off to the morgue. We’ll get the tech team to unlock his phone and get his contacts if our database doesn’t yield any results,’ Roman moved a little, his feet soft against the ground as he watched his body being moved off site, mind elsewhere as his spirit ghosted along behind both vehicle and responders. </p>
<p>He could only hope he could get to Logan and find a way to help him through this. But as the glare of light entered his mind, he sighed and stepped back into reality. He was a ghost. An incorporeal being with some attachment to the world. He had to find that piece before he was forced away from Logan for good. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>_____________</p>
</div>It’s never easy to know someone so well you can tell when they’re in pain without them moving a muscle. As Roman watched on, standing opposite his stone-faced fiancé, he allowed himself to grieve his own death just a little more. No one could hear or see him, so there was no harm in allowing himself an outlet.<p>As always, Logan’s only major reaction to the bad news, was a simple nod; but the pressure of his teeth clenching together was as much of a give-away as Roman needed, not that he’d needed a give-away to know how much this would hurt his love. </p>
<p>With a second nod, Logan swallowed and briskly moved out the door, quickly moving from a walk to something nearly a jog. Trying to remain composed despite the overwhelming sadness he was feeling. Roman followed along, having to jog after him. It was a split-second reaction, seeing a slight tremble in his lower lip, Roman reached forward to hold his hand, grasping it tight to reassure him. </p>
<p>The second it took him to remember he was a ghost was also the moment he felt everything Logan was feeling inside. It was enough to make a tear form, his finger wiping it from the corner of his eye before he could realise what was happening, taking his hand from Logan’s to wipe the other eye and suddenly feeling empty and hollow with the lack of Logan’s sadness. </p>
<p>Racing after him one more time, he gripped Logan’s hand tight, ensuring as much contact as possible. He felt the well of emotions again; rage and fear, sadness and guilt. It swirled in the pit of his stomach and up into his chest like twin hurricanes decimating separate parts of his body. But this time he gritted his teeth, recognising that crying wouldn’t do him any good. </p>
<p>Whatever new power this was, this attachment and empathy, it made him feel just that little bit closer to his grieving spouse. For a moment, as they wandered through the corridors of the lower levels, he wondered if this forced empathy was something he could only feel with Logan, or if he could touch others and feel their feelings flow through him like a river. A turbulent and rapid spotted river, but a river, nonetheless. </p>
<p>He didn’t realise they were outside until he heard the jingle of keys, looking over to Logan and watching sadly as the keys trembled in his shaking hands, clattering together loudly with every quiver. He was in no state to drive, more than likely he’d wind up just like Roman; and wasn’t that just the worst thing he could think of. After such a death as his own at the hands of someone else, Roman felt his anxiety spike greatly at the idea of Logan even being in a car. If his own death came at the hands of someone else, then what would stop the world from tarnishing his beloved as well. </p>
<p>Hands on autopilot as his thoughts raced, Roman tried to swat the keys out of Logan’s hands, eyes widening only a fraction when they jumped a fraction, enough that they slipped from Logan’s hands and unluckily into the storm drain not five inches behind them. What luck for Roman, what misfortune for Logan. </p>
<p>He could have danced and praised whoever was listening for helping him achieve his goal, but it occurred to him that now Logan had no other choice than to call a cab or an uber to take him home and that still was a car. There was no bus service nearby the hospital or their home, and no one Roman trusted to take care of Logan on his way home. </p>
<p>It came as no surprise that Logan seemed to think so as well. After seemingly nearly breaking down at the loss of his keys, he begrudgingly pulled out his phone, fingers deftly unlocking it before the trembling returned in full force, each swipe a shaky mess as he began to put in what information was necessary to get a lift home. </p>
<p>Somehow it made Roman feel better that at least Logan might not be the cause of his own death, should he die on the road on the way home. And at least if he were to die in some car accident like Roman had, they’d be together again. That little thought was both a peaceful solace to his mind and a dread filled ball of spikes that rolled around in his gut. How could he even wish such a thing would befall his love? And yet, if he were to die, they could meet again and he could hold him once more. The two sides of him argued in tandem as he waited with Logan, hoping against hope that he would either get home safe or he would die painlessly on his way back. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>_____________</p>
</div>He didn’t trust the guy one bit and he would take that sentiment to his grave. Sure the driver seemed nice, and rightfully so with a passenger as distraught as Logan, but there was a certain air about him that made Roman distrust him, or maybe it was just because he didn’t want Logan anywhere near a car but still.<p>He’d arrived in a large black four-wheel drive, not unlike a car Roman had been looking forward to getting once they had discussed (and possibly adopted) children. The thought depressed him now, he’d never be able to have children, never be a father. He’d so looked forward to nurturing another generation, to being a reliable parent with a wild imagination who would go to any lengths to keep his kids safe. There was no chance of that now, and a low chance Logan would consider rearing children without him. Not that he couldn’t, but more that he wouldn’t want to. It had always been his dream, not Logan’s, to have that family he’d wanted with both husband and kids. </p>
<p>But back to his feelings on the man now driving his beloved home. Sure, he would be trustworthy in every sense of the word usually, but something about him bugged Roman. Rubbed him the wrong way. Something about his eyes and his stare as he watched the pit of emotion that was Roman’s fiancé from the rear-view mirror. In every context the gaze would have been construed as gentle and sympathetic, maybe even compassionate, but it felt wrong to Roman. Maybe it was because he knew why Logan was so despondent, or maybe it was because he had never felt right with other people looking at the pair of them too long; but something was wrong, and he couldn’t do anything about it. </p>
<p>He was jerked out of his daze by a quiet gulping sound, followed by Logan’s weak voice, ‘would it be too much trouble for you to pull over?’</p>
<p>For a moment Roman was startled, quickly diving into worry as he tried to ascertain what was wrong with his husband-to-be. He tried to snap at the driver to pull over that second, too concerned to care if his actions seemed abrasive and rude. But as he tried to speak, he remembered that no one would hear him, he was no help to Logan in his current state. </p>
<p>‘Sure thing,’ the driver murmured, gently pulling off to the side of the road, not able to pull to a complete stop until after Logan had quickly exited the vehicle. Roman followed along, unseen and unheard as he watched the man bend double and heave. Dry at first before his apparently non-existent breakfast was pulled from him in silvery strands that glimmered in the late morning sun. </p>
<p>Roman’s hand felt up his back, gently rubbing and patting though he knew Logan couldn’t feel it. It was a moment Roman wished he could be right there beside him, fussing over him and patting his back gently as he held his hair and glasses away from his face. He’d done it before, they both had, more Logan than Roman, but he couldn’t help it if he had a weak immune system. At least Logan never complained about it, Roman had on occasion but felt guilt eat him alive the next second his weakened spouse attempted to push him away. It was just the right amount of accidental guilt tripping mixed with Logan’s anger at Roman’s complaining that made him stay no matter the issue. </p>
<p>He could remember each and every one of their sick days, both taking time off to care for the other no matter what day or time it was. It was one of the things that both made them a hated and loved couple. He’d caught others gossiping about how many days he took off to care for Logan or days he was forced to take off because of illness, oh how they’d hated him for that. But he’d also been praised to his face for taking care of his boyfriend at the time, told that his devotion was a step above and how others wished they’d a reliable partner like him or like Logan. </p>
<p>He never gave it much thought until they brought it up, and it stuck with him that they were both in the same boat when it came to devotion and love. Maybe too much was just the right amount for them. He never doubted they were in love, never had to when even in the little moments between sleep and wakefulness they would come together in harmony as one. Tender, soft, vulnerable and yet a powerful force that no one could put a stop to, well, no one except death it seemed. </p>
<p>His train of thought ended right as Logan began to move again, eyes red and shirt the slightest bit damp from both the heat and strings of spit he’d had to wipe his mouth clean of. And in just a few paces, not even a full five seconds, Logan was back in the car and ready to go home once more. Roman followed as always, he knew he’d be doing a lot of that from now on, and seated himself right next to Logan, trying to wrap an arm around less shaky shoulders. </p>
<p>He wanted to decline when the water bottle was passed from the front seat, unopened and ready to be drunk, but he wasn’t in control here and Logan dearly needed something right now. So, he bit his tongue as the bottle was handed over, opened by shaking hands, and slowly sipped by his spouse. He looked truly shaken up, hair a mess and glasses slightly askew, but he didn’t seem to care about his appearance and Roman knew he wouldn’t have either if he were the one that were alive and Logan the one that were dead. </p>
<p>The tires of the car bit deep into the dirt and gravel as they began to move slowly back onto the road, though no traffic offered them any opposition on their journey. Their driver refused payment, offering Logan a smile as he finally exited the car for good, presenting his number for another free ride that Roman turned his nose up at. Something about being dead seemed to have given him a taste for anger, bitterness, and jealousy. Maybe it was now seeing others as a threat, or finally seeing them for what they truly were; animals bent and driven by lust, greed, and a primal desire. </p>
<p>Whatever made him so soured to the intentions of other humans, he wasn’t about to let it pour out onto Logan. He couldn’t allow such bitterness to infect his beloved right after his own passing, and surely his own sadness would be enough to drag him into some level of bitterness, regardless of Roman’s actions. But he’d always been quick to bitterness and anger, just as much as Roman, but his seemed to hit harder than Roman’s barbs ever did, perhaps because the chill that came with it was akin to liquid nitrogen or – and he hoped Logan would be proud knowing he remembered this much – 250 kelvins, below the freezing point of water if he did remember that correctly. </p>
<p>Regardless of how chilly Logan became in a bitter and angry mood, Roman knew he’d never again be the sole reciprocator of that cool demeanour. He’d never feel those cold barbs tracing patterns over his skin, dipping in and leaving thread-like trails of blood on his skin. Somehow, the fact that was he’d no longer be on the receiving end of Logan’s anger, made him feel just a touch hollower. It wasn’t that he enjoyed being on the other end of those stinging remarks and deadly jabs that often-knocked chunks out of his ego, but the fact he would never be there to witness it again reminded him that he was incorporeal; a wisp of a being with no being about him. </p>
<p>It was strange to just want Logan to be angry at him, just one more time. To remind himself that he was still here, and yet to know that even if he thought he was, Logan didn’t think he was there and never would again. He’d miss not only the anger, but the love. </p>
<p>Their embraces, the longing looks of adoration they shared on occasion, the patient whispers that pushed them on, the cute determined expression he made whilst they competed, and the adorable half pout when he lost. All of those feelings, moments, the little twists of his mouth and the texture of his hair, were things Roman would never be able to touch, caress, kiss, ever again. </p>
<p>He was relegated to the background of Logan’s life now, no longer a main character. Nothing he wasn’t used to, but something he couldn’t stand for. A background character, not even worth a few lines. He’d played smaller parts but never felt this small. </p>
<p>Unable to do anything, a mere audience member in the play he was once the star of, killed off and forced to watch on helplessly as decision after decision was made by his other half. A cruel and unusual torture to say the least of it, and yet something he’d expected to be his future on at least five unconnected occasions. He had thought about death before, who hadn’t, and he’d wondered what his death would hold for him. A heaven, Valhalla, fiery pits and torture racks, a new life in a new form. As the one of the pair to be a believer in almost everything, he’d found it easy to believe an afterlife existed for him, even if one may not in which case, he merely hoped there might be one. Ghosts. Those he was familiar with, along with spirits and the occasional poltergeist. And now he truly knew what had been laid out as his fate by whomever, if there was a whomever, had been watching over him. Some sick joke this would be, to watch on after his dearest love until he either passed on – released from this fresh hell – or was forced to watch Logan die. </p>
<p>He couldn’t truly figure what was worse; to watch Logan die, or to be forced into a position to see him so woefully unequipped to handle his current situation, he worried Logan may just end it there. End their story, their lives, their dreams and hopes right where he was. What would be worse; to watch him live or to watch him die?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>_____________</p>
</div>It wasn’t right to say he floated along behind Logan as they entered their house, but he couldn’t exactly say he walked in. It was more as if he was just a conscious, travelling behind like a camera following the main character of a movie. That is, somewhat, what it felt like, but it wasn’t right to say it “felt” like that because truly it didn’t feel like anything. But he couldn’t really say he’d even thought of what it might feel like, too focused on the journey between driveway and front door.<p>He was dreading this part. Logan hadn’t broken down during the trip home, but in seclusion he most likely would, and there was nothing he could do to stop the inevitable. He didn’t know what to expect though; tears were never a big part of Logan’s somewhat limited emotional range, so there was a chance of torrential downpour but whatever sprung forth could also be a light shower. </p>
<p>What he had expected, or what he hadn’t expected, none of it could compare to the surprise he felt when Logan didn’t even close the door, busy dragging himself across the carpeted room to finally slink into the kitchen, grab a glass and begin to fill it up with water. It was a disaster waiting to happen and all he could do was watch a few feet from him as Logan’s hand trembled, his other coming to stabilise it before they both became too weak to keep a grip and the full glass shattered to the ground. Logan stepped back not completely out of shock or surprise, but Roman could ponder why he did that later. </p>
<p>Sinking to his knees, tears finally beginning to leak from his eyes, Logan began to pick up the shards. It wasn’t in him not to clean up a mess and Roman had his hopes too high that in this moment of complete emotional annihilation Logan might use that same big brain as always and get a broom or dustpan to clean up what would surely harm him. His disappointment was bitter-sweet and lasted about as long as Logan did. </p>
<p>The first piece he picked up was about half the size of his palm and it was all he could take before he bent double on his knees to let out a heart wrenching cry. At that moment Roman dearly wished Logan could feel him as he moved forward and wrapped his arms, if he could even call them that, around the quivering form. </p>
<p>Each broken sob shattered his heart. He pulled his arms back, still hugging tightly in hopes Logan would turn and cry into his shoulder. His arms passed through Logan’s body with little difficulty and suddenly the urge he’d had to cry like his body was alight and burning was gone. </p>
<p>He didn’t know what to do. He’d never known what to do. What to say to Logan, what to do with his arms, or hands, or anything. Everyone thought he was oh so confident, an extroverted theatre nerd with an abundance of needs and a strong urge, no want, for attention. For some people, he played the part perfectly, but that was all. In the quiet and the calm, he’d never been able to figure out what to do. Not in the sense that he couldn’t make up his mind, but the sense that when it came to people, to emotions, to relationships, he could never be sure how to react or how to comfort. </p>
<p>Sure, Logan had been an exception to the rule, but he was the only exception ever. And now that he couldn’t rely on physical comfort to work, couldn’t talk, couldn’t get through to Logan in a meaningful way; he was shattered wide open with no idea how to pick himself back up. If it weren’t for the fact there was currently a crying man in his arms, he would walk off and lay on his back trying to figure out what he would do with himself. His overactive mind had conjured the thoughts of inadequacy more than once, but in his current state he felt those thoughts return with fervour. </p>
<p>And though it was hard to shake it off, the spiral of inadequacy always was, he took what felt like deep breaths, attempted to calm himself and moved his focus to Logan. The heaving, sobbing, very soon to be messy mass of a human who was, to his own knowledge, completely alone. He had no idea who was with him, and Roman had a terrifying suspicion that if someone were to come into the house Logan would either not notice them or be unable to even try to defend himself. If it weren’t for the fact he was on his knees, Roman knew there would have been a very real possibility that Logan could have crumbled and truly hurt himself, but they seemed to be at least a little lucky as he’d stayed on his knees when attempting to pick up the mess of glass on the floor still. </p>
<p>But there was still that shard in his hand and despite all warning bells going off in Roman’s head, he couldn’t do anything to stop the slow welling of blood as the shard was gripped hard and the sharp edges cut through flesh, letting a thin rivulet of crimson run to a point and drip onto the floor. He didn’t let go of the shard as Roman hoped he would when he seemed to finally register the pain. Merely staring at his hand with despondent eyes as the tears continued to flow and the sobs became caked with a layer of hiccups and sniffs. Everything sounded worn, wet, distraught. </p>
<p>Anguish. He didn’t know fully what the word meant or entailed, but Logan had once told him that it was something meaning, in approximation, great distress and suffering. Perhaps this was what it felt like, what it sounded like. Anguish over losing someone or something close to you that meant so much you could barely breathe with how badly it hurt. So, was this anguish? Was this what anguish was supposed to mean? He didn’t know if he too felt it, but he guessed he felt more like how Logan was looking at his wound. Empty, despondent, broken inside and out; was there a word that could truly sum up everything he was feeling seeing as he could never be with Logan again and could never show him that he was near, that he was there, that he could help if only the rules of life would allow it. </p>
<p>He caught himself right before he could fall into that trap once more. They didn’t need this right now, this spiral of emotion and tunnel vision. What they needed was a band-aid or something to stop the blood. They needed to clean it, care for it, make sure Roman wasn’t the only one to visit a doctor today. But therein lay the problem, the problem that only one of them could think rationally and in that the rational thoughts wouldn’t be heard since he couldn’t even speak to Logan. Getting him to get up and take care of himself was one thing, one thing he could have done well had he been alive still; he did pride himself in being able to take care of his partner, even if his partner was more than able to do it himself. In his current, ethereal, ghost form there was no way Logan would hear him, though. Along with this, there was no way he could physically move Logan. </p>
<p>Conundrum wasn’t the right word; it was short one word that started with “f” and would get his mouth washed out if Logan heard him saying it in his presence. He could swear, but there was an uneasy tension that would slowly escalate if one of them swore and the other didn’t. Back to the matter at hand, he had no clue what to do and panic rose quickly in his chest. </p>
<p>What would anyone else do? He had no hero, not a singular one anyway, but in a panicked state he couldn’t even think of one person he would be able to turn to in a sorry mess like this one. He couldn’t even seem to remember anyone by face or name, the only one springing to mind the one in his arms and he doubted that in the state he was in – incorporeal that is – even Logan wouldn’t be able to think his way out of this. </p>
<p>So, he took his eyes off Logan, he couldn’t think and needed to and watching those tears was not doing him any favours, and in his wide eyed and quick glancing gaze he took in the tap and sink across from them. It wasn’t some kind of lightning moment of intelligent observation, more like random thoughts collecting into something coherent. If he could get the tap to turn on, make some noise, he could alert Logan enough to maybe do something. He had no idea how far reaching his powers were, if he even had any other than that little emotion sharing thing, but it was one little thing and he would give anything a try once. </p>
<p>He left Logan for a second, standing – if you could call it that – and moving to the tap on what seemed like shaky legs. He didn’t want to look down and check, so he kept his eyes on his “prize”, gripping the old-fashioned cold-water handle and tried to twist it, emotions rioting between fearful sadness and powerful anger as the handle refused to budge even a little. Rage soon overtook him as the handle refused to move and in this overtaking anger he lashed out with a mixture between a grunt and a shout, and for just one second his overflowing anger seemed to leverage something. </p>
<p>The sound of the handle squeaking softly seemed to bite through all his other thoughts as a gentle drip dropped down from the faucet and into the sink below. His eyes widening as the handle in his grip slipped a little further and the drips turned steady, like a metronome ticking back and forth. He didn’t even notice as Logan looked up, stood up and walked to him, only having to take a few steps in his attempt to right himself and turn the tap off. What finally startled Roman back into the real world was a hand reaching into his own and gripping the tap, screwing it a little further as another hand joined it over the sink and both quickly drenched themselves in water. Roman didn’t jump back so much as he stepped back in shock, watching the still sobbing figure wash the blood off his hands, moving them up to his face periodically to wipe away the tears still streaming form his eyes or rub at his nose. </p>
<p>As disgusting as it was, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of love as he felt the great weight falling from his shoulders as the sight of his beloved taking care of himself. But as soon as the weight lifted memories swirled back to him in waves, each one a riptide drawing him deeper into nostalgia of his past life. From sicknesses shared, hangovers unprepared for, and the many other times they’d shared tears; each one was something he still deemed precious and knew he would always deem it precious. Who wouldn’t deem even the smallest moment with someone they loved precious, especially when no new memories with them could be formed? </p>
<p>If it weren’t for the fact he wasn’t technically there, Roman would have felt many small sharp pains as he dropped to the floor where the leftover broken glass lay still scattered. He couldn’t pick it up and he didn’t realise where he was sitting until Logan turned to pick up some of the shards, but it seemed that he then realised how poorly he’d executed the idea previously and backtracked to near the front door to gather their dustpan and broom; old fashioned metal and wood with worn out bristles that easily picked up a great deal of the glass shards with one sweep. </p>
<p>And the brush that was sweeping those shards up went right through him. He could see it; swipe in, swipe out, repeat. It didn’t feel like anything. Maybe that was a good thing, that he didn’t feel a bristly brush swiping through his innards collecting glass; probably a good thing he didn’t feel the glass as well. A part of him did want to feel it, to remind himself he was alive, but he wasn’t and that couldn’t happen so what could he do, nothing, that’s what. </p>
<p>He exhaled shakily and wondered, with closed eyes, if he was breathing out of habit or if he actually needed to breathe. When he opened his eyes again he almost fell onto his back having not heard Logan move across the floor and into him, checking the floor for more shards with his face pressed against Roman’s, unknowingly sharing breath with the incorporeal being as Roman tried to remember how to breathe. He didn’t know if he needed it, but right now he couldn’t remember how to and he needed to remember how to. </p>
<p>He did breathe again, when Logan moved back, knees flat against the floor as his back straightened a little and his eyes flicked over to the dustpan. He seemed to contemplate whether to get up or stay on the ground yet again; Roman could nearly see the cogs in his head whirring away slowly, making a gently click-clack against one another as he tried to process what to do next. For his own sake, Roman hoped he would stand and head to their bedroom – or rather his bedroom, they didn’t share it anymore. There was the possibility that he would remain, seemingly glued to the floor until he collapsed to the floor on his side to sleep where once there had been sharp glass and drops of blood. </p>
<p>When he stood, shaky but sturdy enough, Roman felt a sigh leave him. He too stood, following along in a vain attempt to keep him steady and make it known that he was not alone. Load of good it would do to have a ghost following him around, but if he couldn’t convince Logan there was someone with him, then he could at least comfort himself that Logan had someone with him, no matter how bad that help may be if it came down to the unthinkable. </p>
<p>He was glad to see Logan still had some sense about him, gathering one of his old newspapers to wrap the glass shards in before disposing of the deadly package and returning the dustpan and brush to their rightful place. Roman could wax poetic about how smart he was even in the midst of his lowest of lows, or he could think about how they were the same as the dustpan and brush; one could not be of use without the other. But he was much more focused on keeping track of every wobble in Logan’s knees, every new tear that ran down his face, and the ever-welling blood on his palm that he’d not taken a bandage to. </p>
<p>He was thankful when Logan entered the bedroom and dropped to the bed that they hadn’t left one of Logan’s hardcover books there, less thankful when the blood began to stain the sheets and Logan seemed unable to move even minutely from where he’d dropped. At least it wasn’t the floor, was the only thought running through Roman’s head as he slowly entered the room, reminded of hobbies and nights past. Everything in the room reminded them of each other; the separate book shelves for their own personal collections, Roman’s little tchotchkes he refused to throw out that crowded their windowsill, Logan’s poster of the periodic table that was signed by three different scientists in the field of chemical engineering (a birthday present Roman had spent far too much time and money on but made him too happy for Roman to care more than feeling a general sense of saltiness), and then there were the twin bedside tables picked out by both of them and decorated with their personalities. </p>
<p>Everything was a reminder of what they’d had in the past, and what they would never have again. Roman wondered briefly if Logan would ever have the heart to throw away, or at the very least put away, all of his possessions. He’d never made a will, but he knew his family expected it all to go to Logan, so in a way they weren’t his possessions anymore, they were Logan’s now. There was a small bit of doubt in him that the second Logan was even marginally better, he’d throw it all away just to get rid of the memories. But even if he did try, he wouldn’t be able to go all the way, that’s just how he was. </p>
<p>No matter how much he tried to be non-sentimental and stoic to a fault, there was always going to be one little thing that broke him. Maybe it would be the first of the tchotchkes Roman brought home, or that mint condition Wolverine comic Roman had squirreled away in the bookcase with a cheesy heart shaped post-it-note on the cover and “Mr and Mr Wolverine” doodled with all the charm of a love sick fifth grader, or maybe it would be the rings. Roman figured they’d return his own in due time after it all and maybe Logan would keep it, maybe he’d put it on the corpse and watch it be buried deep in the ground. </p>
<p>Roman tried not to dwell on the idea of his body decomposing in a casket, rotting away with a ring wrapped tight around one finger. It wouldn’t do him any good, but he supposed it also wouldn’t do him any harm. He sank down onto the bed, back to the window, one hand stretched behind him to gently trace patterns on Logan’s back. He took in the dark wood bookcase, each title non-fiction with the exception of a few classics and murder mystery books. All hardcover, all gleaming in the afternoon sun. </p>
<p>He turned away from them, slipping what he considered his feet and legs onto the bed and turning to the window and his partner. There wasn’t much room beside him, not enough for Roman to properly lay down on anyway but did that really matter. He supposed not as he slipped down further, lying next to the despondent body as he reached a hand out to caress the wisps of hair still fluffed out in their multitude of directions. That same hand followed down to what he could touch of his face, gently attempting to caress it before Logan shifted his head to look right through him. For a second he thought he’d caught Logan’s attention before he moved his entire body and curled in on himself, closing his eyes against the light. </p>
<p>Most likely he just wanted to sleep, to stop the light and sun from keeping him awake, and yet Roman knew that the biggest reason was probably because he wanted to shy away from all the relics of their past together. So, he just moved his hand a little more, kept his caresses gentle and touch light as each movement dug a deeper pit in his stomach. </p>
<p>He hadn’t really cried yet, not when he’d seen his body, or when he’d felt the pain of them pulling it away from the scene. Not when he’d seen Logan for the first time, not when Logan had hurt himself, not when they’d collapsed into bed together. But he did cry when he heard that pitiful first cry. A tiny sound that was almost akin to a dying animal. It felt like the first time he’d heard Logan speak his name and he was just reminded of every time after that very first one. </p>
<p>In the gentle glow of the setting sun, rays of light shining off tear stained cheeks, the gentlest of heartbroken whispers pierced the silence like light would piece the dark. The softest of calls for help in the form of a name. </p>
<p>Eyes closed, heart in tatters, mind near breaking point, he whispered, ‘Roman.’ And Roman couldn’t answer the call.</p>
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